


The Bear, the Maiden Fair...and Only One Bed

by ladymelodrama



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Bear Island, F/M, Lord Jorah Mormont, Princess Daenerys, preview fic, there's only one bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:47:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26814610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymelodrama/pseuds/ladymelodrama
Summary: Coming soon to a Jorleesi Theater near you... 😘
Relationships: Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 44
Kudos: 58





	The Bear, the Maiden Fair...and Only One Bed

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this is just a preview to a long-form Bear Island/The-Rebellion-Never-Happened AU fic that salzrand and I have been brainstorming for what feels like months and will _finally_ be starting next week #SecretProject #BraceYourselves #FluffIsComing
> 
> I'll give you the full details/backstory once we start the main fic but this is a story in which Robert's Rebellion never happened - so Rhaegar Targaryen is King of the Seven Kingdoms, Daenerys has lived (until recently) as a princess in King's Landing and Jorah Mormont is the widower Lord of Bear Island (no Lynesse, no selling of poachers, no exile).
> 
> I'm posting this now because teaser trailers are fun :) And this one especially...because (and I can't stress this enough) THERE'S ONLY ONE BED ❤️

“What are you doing?” Daenerys asked him, suddenly, and before thinking better of it. 

She’d been peeling back the warm quilts on the bed and was now crawling in, bone-weary from the long days of travel, all those many miles by land and sea, from King’s Landing to Bear Island. The festivities of the day had offered little rest, as House Mormont was eager to welcome their lord home again…and his new bride. 

Daenerys was happy to finally have a soft mattress to sleep on. She’d had enough of uncomfortable tent couches and lumpy ship bunks for a while. She was halfway under the covers when she noticed Jorah rustling at the other side of the room.

He’d taken a pillow from the headboard and had dropped it on the floor by the cold hearth, where a bear skin rug covered hard stone. He was stooping down as if he expected to…?

Jorah stopped at her voice, looking up, barely able to meet her frank gaze. But he did, holding it steady, for the first time since they walked through the door to his bedchamber. 

He’d neglected to look at her even as they prepared for bed. Even when she needed his hands. She found herself without a maidservant to help her undo the fastenings at the back of her dress. Timid, but unable to find any way around it, she’d asked him, “Would you help me with the stays?”

No handmaidens or servant girls would attend Daenerys tonight, as all in the Mormont Keep assumed the newlyweds would want to take advantage of their first night in a month without traveling and the less-than-private quarters afforded during the long journey from King’s Landing.

At her request, Jorah swallowed hard but nodded. 

As he took a cautious step towards her, she turned slightly, with her back towards him. She gathered up her long silver hair, pulling it to one side, as his hands found the looped bow at the small of her waist. She tried not to fidget, keeping herself still, as he pulled the knot free. 

She was used to having one of the handmaidens, or even Rhaenys, her sweet-tempered niece, undo the laces, but this was entirely different. 

He was so much taller than the girls. His hands were larger and pulled at the fastenings with a gentle but undeniable strength. His scent was strange and foreign, but somehow familiar too, taking on the woodsy spruce and pine of his island even after only a half day back. 

As his fingers crawled up the laces, carefully pulling the stays loose, she was a little surprised to find butterflies stirring in her stomach.

Was it just the newness of this place? Or the fact that a man was the one helping her out of her clothes this night? 

_Lord Jorah Mormont, my husband…_

When he was done, he paused, remaining where he was for a mere beat longer than necessary, before stepping away. When she turned back, she found his gaze fixed on the hearth and she was unable to judge his thoughts, the secrets of his expression hidden from her. 

With propriety, he kept his eyes averted, as she slipped the outer gown from her shoulders, sliding the skirt down her hips, stepping out of the fabric and leaving her standing in only the sleeveless shift beneath. She would sleep in that shift, too tired to dig through all her luggage to find a suitable nightgown. 

A sudden, rash (playful?) thought pranced through her head, wondering—hypothetically, of course—how he might react if she were to remove the shift too. 

Oh, his cheeks would bloom scarlet, wouldn’t they? 

The mere thought threatened to bring a flush to her own cheeks, though she couldn’t say why. Her thoughts were still muddled, her feelings unclear. She distracted herself by reaching up to take out the braids in her hair, combing her fingers through the silver-blonde strands. 

From the other side of the chamber, Jorah cleared his throat, asking, “Do you want a fire for the night?”

“Do you usually keep one?” she wondered, curious.

“Not in the summer,” he shook his head, but allowed, “I know you’re used to warmer temperatures in the capital…”

“No, I’ll be fine,” she answered, not wanting to cause him any further trouble, granting him a small smile to prove that her words were sincere. 

He wasn’t wrong. With her dress removed, she felt an icy chill against her bare shoulders. But she worried he would roast with a fire in this room. The Bear Islanders wore far less layers than she did and she got the impression that what would be considered a chilly autumn night in King’s Landing might be a heat wave up here. 

Jorah had removed his cloak and jerkin already, laying them over a cushioned bench pushed beneath the tall, corner windows, all painted in shades of nightfall. His breeches and tunic remained. And under the collar of that tunic, she noticed a fairly thick layer of chest hair peeking out, all curled and golden-colored under the soft candlelight in the room.

She was staring, she realized. And dropped her eyes quickly, before he noticed. 

With her hair free of its braids, she turned her attention to his bed, large and inviting, covered in many quilts, wools and furs. She was so tired and ready to crawl into them at once, wrapping herself in a cocoon of warmth. 

That’s when she saw the pillow on the floor. That’s when she realized what he intended.

_What are you doing?_

His blue eyes flickered on her question, his Adam’s apple bobbing once. He stumbled on the reply, thinking it was obvious, “I thought…” 

But he failed to finish, seeing the way her eyebrows knit together, confusion giving way to revelation. In King’s Landing, the night of their wedding, he’d fallen asleep in the chair beside the bed after they spoke late into the evening. She shook her head firmly, “No, I won’t have you sleep on cold stone.”

“I don’t mind,” he argued.

“ _I_ would mind,” she said, sinking down on the mattress, her hands falling to her lap, fingers tangling together. She felt terrible about all this. He’d been dragged into her troubles against his will. He’d already given up so much.

For her. A woman he barely knew.

“Please, I’d feel terrible,” she explained, her voice soft and edging on misery. For his sake, for hers. None of this was fair. And he certainly wasn’t to blame. “I already feel terrible. I—I’m sorry you were caught up in this. I should have found a way to stop Viserys. I should have—”

“No, Daenerys,” Jorah assured her, not letting her finish, his expression nothing but steady now. It was easier to keep her gaze when he sensed she needed comfort. “That’s not—I’m glad he chose me, even if it was out of spite. I’m glad you’re here.”

“But I’m sorry that—”

“Don’t be,” he shook his head, his features going soft with sympathy. He’d taken a step closer, stirred by the slight falter in her voice. His hand lifted just a hair, as if he might… 

But he caught himself, staying where he was instead. The short distance between them seemed to widen with every second of silence that followed. His eyes dropped to the floor briefly and he said, “I don’t want you to feel that any of this is your fault or that you’re a burden to me in any way.”

“Then sleep in your own bed, Jorah,” she insisted, with a little force in her tone, using his given name without thinking. 

This was the first time she’d said it. Here, now. In the privacy of a bedchamber that they shared, just the two of them. 

This didn’t go unnoticed by either of them, and Daenerys watched the bear lord blush a little after all, and felt her own cheeks go hot at the same time. 

But this was ridiculous. They were married, weren’t they? He said that after a time, there would be less scrutiny on them and she might have her own chambers, decorated and furnished however she liked. She would be Lady of Bear Island but they would live chastely, for so long as she desired. Forever, if that’s what she wanted. He promised her.

She supposed there would be questions on why she failed to produce an heir for her husband but Jorah growled on the notion, and said it would be no one’s business but theirs. 

He'd acquiesced to his king’s insult. He’d lied for her. He’d given up his own choice of bride. And perhaps the chance of children and carrying on his family name too. So no, she wouldn’t let him give up his own bed as well. She raised her chin just a little.

“Please?” she begged, patting the other side of the bed once. She told him, truthfully, “I won’t be able to sleep if you don’t.”

The conflict in his features was palpable. But her last words seemed to tip the scales in his head, as she knew he wanted her to feel comfortable here. Besides, the bed was large, it could fit four easily. They wouldn’t come near to touching, if that’s what he was worried about.

_Do you want to touch me, my lord?_

If she was bolder, she might ask him directly. But which answer did she want to hear? 

In King’s Landing, she’d been afraid and was grateful that he seemed ambivalent towards her in that way, offering her no cloying tokens of love or affection, just a friendly gift of books. And despite his kindness, he voiced no desire to have her. He seemed to appreciate her beauty and said she was lovely at their wedding.

She knew he lost his first wife early, and tragically. In childbirth, they said. Sometimes that turned a man’s heart cold. And she knew he’d been a widower for years, never taking another wife, until forced to do so.

Until forced to marry _her_. 

But perhaps he didn’t want her at all? Which was a good thing, wasn’t it? She certainly didn’t want him…

…did she?

Her mind went blank on the odd, nearly absurd question. She wouldn’t have been able to form more words if she tried. 

But her tone had been firm and resolute enough that he argued no more. He merely nodded his head slowly, with a hint of resignation, before bending down to pick that pillow up off the floor.


End file.
